Bruce dug his fingers into the earth by the edge of the iron, and rattled it with his hands. Then he tried to lift it up. It moved! As it moved, he worked his fingers underneath it, and raised it up on its edge. He said not one word, but lifted it up, and held it before the eyes of the “B. O. W. C.” And as they looked at it they were struck dumb, and stood paralyzed with amazement and disgust. For there, in Bruce’s hands, held up to the light of day, the iron lid of the iron money-chest, that coffer lid that concealed so much treasure, buried long ago by the fugitive Frenchman, to be exhumed by their fortunate hands,--that iron lid which had been the source of so much excitement and hope, had resolved itself into nothing better than _a rusty old ploughshare!_ Again holding it till he was tired, Bruce handed it solemnly to Bart. “Here, Bart,” said he, “I’ll give all my share to you.” “And I present all that you give me and all my own to Tom,” said Bart, taking it and passing it on to Tom. Tom took it and handed it to Arthur. “I make it over to you, Arthur,” said he. “And I make it over to Phil,” said Arthur. Phil took it. “Very well,” said he. “I hereby give and bequeath all my right, title, and interest, in and to the said ploughshare, to the Academy Museum, its curators and officials, to have and to hold forevermore, amen, and anything to the contrary thereof in any wise notwithstanding.” By this time the boys had recovered from their astonishment, disappointment, and disgust. “That comes of being so sanguine,” said Bart. “Boys, why would you allow yourselves to grow so excited?” “Fancy a fugitive Acadian solemnly burying his plough.” “It was all he had, poor wretch, I dare say.” “But why bury it in his cellar? Why not in his potato field?” “For my part, I don’t believe in the Acadian French.” “I think they’re humbugs.” “And this is all that remains of the wealth of ‘Benedict Bellefontaine, the wealthiest farmer in Grand Pré!” “Perhaps he intended it as a quiet hint to show those who were in a hurry to get rich the true source of wealth. The plough is that, you know; so the copy-books all say, at any rate.” “Well, I’m glad we’ve got even this. It makes archæologists of us. We’ll make it a present to the Museum, The doctor’ll be delighted. Perhaps he’ll give us an extra holiday. Every scale of rust will be precious in his eyes; and he’ll paste a nice label on it, with all our names immortalized, and the date of the discovery. It will be the chief treasure of the Museum. Where’ll David Diggs’s crystal be, or Billymack’s moss agate, or Jiggins’s petrifactions, beside our plough?” “I wonder if we couldn’t find something else, so as to make a handsome thing out of it. An old rusty nail would be better than nothing.”